


Dry Heat

by fajrdrako



Category: Queen of Swords
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fajrdrako/pseuds/fajrdrako





	Dry Heat

The bullet wound was recent. Dr. Robert Helm held the man’s arm gently, probing. He nodded at the Queen of Swords. “Messy work. You’ll need to hold the bowl.”

The bowl was for catching the blood. She nodded without flinching, and held the bowl soundlessly while he cut out the bullet. The young man made no sound at all while his flesh was cut. Nor did he cry out as the wound was stitched, though the skin of his face paled from tan to white, and he made a noise in the back of his throat as the knife cut.

Helm was tired. As always his work was precise and his fingers deft, but his heart was leaden within him. He felt as if the desert had soaked all the moisture from his body, leaving him as dessicated as a fallen leaf, and the heart within him a cracked and empty gourd. He did not want to be here. He had come because he had received an urgent summons from the Queen of Swords, delivered by a child who was frantic. “Come, sir, come, the masked lady has sent me for you, my cousin is dying.”

She had been unwilling or unable to answer his questions, so he had given up arguing and had come, riding with the child before him on his horse and pointing out the way to a farm in the hills, where chickens wandered in the yard and the roof needed repairing. Helm had dismounted and lifted the child to the ground. She had disappeared, running, disappearing down the road.

Helm recognized the horse at the trough. It belonged to the Queen of Swords, who was once again involving him in her affairs. She fascinated and horrified him; she was amazing, she was dangerous – at least to his peace of mind. He did not want nor intend to be lured into lawbreaking, yet here he was, about to attend another mysterious patient at the behest of a woman who was as lethal as she was reckless.

He had taken off his hat as he pushed the creaking door open. “Hello?” he had said, and saw her, trying to stop the bleeding from a bullet wound to the arm. The patient was propped in a chair, pale already from loss of blood. Helm took his instruments from his bag, dropping to one knee beside the man, checking the pulse in his good arm. Professionalism was taking over. He tried to ignore the inflammatory presence of the Queen beside him, as disturbing to his peace of mind as was the Colonel who pursued her.

She was calm and steady in a medical emergency. She made a good nurse, except when she twisted her head to the door, and made an impatient motion. “Hurry,” she said. “Montoya is coming, with the soldiers. They will find us.”

“You heard him?”

She nodded, quickly. Her hands were firm on the sides of the bowl, unmoving.

“You have good hearing, Señorita.” She did not correct him, and he wondered if that was confirmation of his guess that she was unmarried. He was itching with curiosity to know who she was, not to sell her to Montoya, but to understand himself what would make a woman of her capabilities into an masked desperado. He wanted to tear the mask from her face, but she was, he reminded himself, none of her business. He wanted no part in the deadly duel between this girl and the Colonel, but he had been placed between them whether he liked it or not.

“Danger enhances the senses, Doctor.” She flashed him a smile. He did not return it, looking away to stare intently at his work as he snipped the end of the suture. Was she flirting with him, damn her? It was difficult to tell. It he were more certain, he would tell her she was wasting her time, that she might as well flirt with a corpse. On the other hand….

He could hear Montoya and his men now, riding up to the farmhouse. They must be overconfident, to let themselves so noisily be heard. Or perhaps they wanted to frighten the Queen into the open? He found himself smiling at the woman, after all. “You were right. Here they are, on cue.” He took the bowl from her.

She was halfway to the back door when the front door opened. For a moment, they could see no one clearly: simply hands holding guns at the ready, the barrels casting shadows on the step. Then Montoya stepped in the light of the doorway, his own pistol pointed at the heart under her black corset. “The Queen of Whores,” he said, in a friendly manner. “You are under arrest, my Queen.”

Before anyone could do anything, Helm stepped between the girl and the levelled pistol. “Don’t be stupid,” he said.

The Queen was out the door by then. They heard the shouts outside, the cry of her horse, the pursuit the soldiers as they careened after her down into the gorge on horseback.

Montoya held his pistol pointed at Helm, his hand utterly steady, his aim true. His eyes, over the barrel, were steely and cold. He lowered the pistol slowly, his eyes not leaving Helm’s face.

One of Montoya’s soldiers appeared behind him. “Colonel, the Queen – she is escaping – Captain Grisham has pursued –”

There was a pause. The soldier was evidently confused by Montoya’s lack of reaction. Ignoring him, the Colonel said to Helm, “Is your patient dead?”

Helm looked at the wounded boy; touched his neck. The young desperado was pale, but the pulse was strong. “Fainted, perhaps,” said Helm indifferently, knowing that the boy was faking it. He no doubt dreaded being interrogated by Montoya about what had happened to cause his gunshot wound. Helm could hardly blame him. He did not know, himself, how the lad had come to be shot. It hardly mattered. Nor did he know how Montoya had learned of it, to come here with the soldiers. Montoya was more clever than he had any right to be – or perhaps luckier.

Montoya said something to the soldier in a low voice, and the soldier went away. The Colonel looked again at the patient, at the interior of the farmhouse, at the bloodstained cloths and bedclothes. “How did he come to be shot, Doctor?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Do you even know his name?”

“I have seen him before, in town. Pedro, Pablo, something like that.”

“Why are you here?”

“The Queen of Swords sent for me.”

“And what were you doing when she sent for you? Were you at home? In your surgery?”

“I was in my bedroom, Colonel. I was having a nap.”

“You tell us did not shoot this man?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Helm impatiently. Montoya was fishing and it annoyed him. “I don’t shoot people.”

Montoya let the silence linger. He did not speak, but Helm knew his thought: I have seen you kill. It was closer to the truth than Helm felt comfortable with.

Helm wanted a drink. He knew it wouldn’t help him, but he wanted it anyway.

Montoya said softly, “Did the Queen shoot him?”

“I very much doubt it.”

“Is she your lover, Doctor?”

“No.” Montoya was trying to annoy him, and failing. Against life’s other annoyances – the tendency of men to shoot each other, the tendency of women to fall ill and suffer, the tendency of babies to die and above all the insufferable and endless dry heat of the desert -- Montoya’s sweet barbed tongue was only a note in the hellish chorus. Helm cleaned the bowl, washed his hands, cleaned and put his instruments back in his bag, and put some extra salve on his patient’s wound. He briefly prayed for it to heal, and for the boy to live another day. When he had been a believer, his prayers had meant something. Now they were thoughts like tumbleweed, dry as dust, with no substance.

Montoya watched him as he worked. He stood inside the doorway, his eyes alert. His presence was as unnerving as that of the Queen, for similar reasons. Montoya was a predator and needed to be handled carefully. He did not move away when Helm approached the door.

They stood, face to face by the threshold. It was a duel of sorts, a duel of wills, though what Montoya thought, Helm could not imagine. He was almost close enough to feel the warmth of his body. He wondered if Montoya meant to be intimidating, and if he were not so tired, whether it might have worked.

Montoya lifted his head a little, an aristocratic gesture Helm could not read.

“You want me to leave by the back door?” asked Helm politely. “My horse is out front. Colonel, surely you have work to do, somewhere.”

 

Montoya smiled broadly. “At the moment, you are my work,” he said. He bowed his head in an unexpected gesture of respect. “You are under arrest, Dr. Helm, for aiding and abetting the outlaw Queen of Swords.”

“Let’s go, then,” said Helm wearily. It was another one of the games that Montoya insisted on playing. They both knew that Montoya had to power to do whatever he wanted. They both knew that Helm had done nothing wrong. Arresting him was petty and pointless, but it was a move in a game that Montoya felt a desire to play. The kind of game Helm had tried to leave behind when he left his former life to be a doctor in another hemisphere and another world.

They went to the horses. The dust was so dry it was a taste in the air. The sun felt like a heavy weight, striking the eyes hard after the dimness in the farmhouse. Helm thought suddenly of the bullet he had taken from a young man’s arm, and the pain the youth had endured stoically.

He wanted a drink more than ever.

Montoya left two soldiers on duty at the farmhouse, and took two with himself and Helm back to his hacienda. The rest had gone with Grisham after the Queen. How long they would be gone depended on what kind of merry chase she led them this time. Helm had no fear she would be caught; the Queen, whoever she was, was a remarkable young woman, and Grisham was a worse fool than Montoya. Montoya, he had to admit, being honest with himself, was not a fool at all. He was in fact appallingly clever.

The horses were taken by attentive servants. “Follow me,” said Montoya to Helm, not without civility, as he led him into the central room which served as his office and receiving hall.

Make yourself comfortable, Doctor Helm,” said Montoya. “I will be with you in a few moments. There are drinks in the cabinet, there. I can tell you are thirsty.”  
Because he was stubborn and proud as well as thirsty, Helm ignored the offer. Alone in the room, he wandered a little. Interesting taste in books: some English classics, surprisingly, some French, some tomes of Spanish law. Latin poetry, oddly enough, and something by Lord Byron.

Montoya reappeared in the room. “If you wish to read, help yourself. It will pass the time.”

Helm ignored the offer. “I thought I was under arrest,” he said. “This doesn’t look like a jail.”

“You are under arrest. House arrest. My house.”

Helm grunted.

“Doctor Helm, I fear you are not taking this seriously.”

He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. “You know I’m not a killer.” He hoped he sounded just bland enough to be convincing. Montoya had known him to kill – once, in self-defense. He knew Montoya suspected him of deeper motives, goodness knew what. He might even suspect the truth: that Helm had sickened of himself and his past, and that he had once been exceedingly good at killing.

“I know nothing of the kind. Moreover, I know you are my main lead to finding the Queen of Swords. Moreover…” He paused. “I am not ready yet to explain my third reason for detaining you. Wonder about it.”

“I will,” said Helm obediently, not meaning it. Montoya had no hold over him but legalities. He saw no reason – yet – to join in on the mind games that went with it.

“I have had a room prepared for you, as my guest,” said Montoya. “You were interrupted in your siesta earlier, so I am sure you want to have a rest before dinner at seven. I have taken the liberty of instructing the servants to draw a bath for you, and to lay out your clothes.” He saw Helm’s sudden frown, and added smoothly, “I thought I was sparing you the trouble of sending for them yourself. Forgive me if I have offended.”

“Your men were searching my home?”

“I assure you, Doctor, they found nothing more incriminating than medical notes.”

“I don’t like that,” said Helm. “You have no right.”

“You believe, as the English do, that a man’s home is his castle? This is not London and I have every right. You are not expected to like it. The man under arrest is not usually asked whether he enjoys the situation.”

Helm nodded. “So. I’m your prisoner, then. What are the house rules?”

“You may instruct my servants as you would your own -- if you had any. You may go anywhere on my property. You may make yourself fully at home.”

“Don’t try to gild the cage. A prison is a prison.”

That almost made its way through the shield of Montoya’s courtesy. The mask did not slip, but Helm was satisfied to hear the edge in his voice under the pleasant smile. “If I put you into the deepest dungeon, you might appreciate the difference.”

“I’ve been there,” said Helm politely. “Either way, it means living with rats.”

Montoya laughed out loud. “You’re wasted,” he said, “utterly wasted on that masked tart.”

Luxuriating in a hot bath, Helm decided that Montoya had a point about gilded prisons, though he wasn’t about to admit it aloud. He had hesitated over the bottle of rum Montoya had thoughtfully left on the shelf beside his bed, but put it back on the shelf, unopened. Montoya wanted his mind weakened. Montoya wanted information from him, and so wanted him drunk. Since Helm had, generally, a hard head and enough sense not to indulge to the limit, he felt Montoya was grasping at straws.

Montoya did not know and did not believe that he had no information to offer. Montoya believed he was sleeping with the Queen of Swords and privy to the secrets of her boudoir. It followed that Montoya believed he knew who she was, and the truth was that Helm hadn’t the faintest idea. There was nothing between him and the outlaw Queen – nothing but one brief, surprising kiss she had sprung on him.

He closed his eyes, relaxing into the hot water. It was civilized comfort. It was almost enough to make a man forget the dryness of the desert. Such a long day it had been…. Not shortened by riding into the hills to do surgery on a young fool who probably thought himself a hero fighting injustice for the rights of the people, at the summons of a young woman who thought herself a new Joan of Arc.

Montoya thought he was bewitched by the Queen. Montoya hadn’t a clue.

When Helm appeared in the dining room sharp on the stroke of seven, he was dressed neatly in shirt, black trousers and burgundy satin vest, and his best jacket. His blue cravat was neatly tied, but not, probably, in the latest fashion. None of his clothes were as fine as Montoya’s, and his days of wearing them with military precision were gone. He had been a young fool, once, but at least he’d grown out of it. Montoya looked like a toy soldier, straight and strong. It suited him, perhaps, if you liked the type.

He bowed slightly to the Colonel, smiled at a maid who was entering with a tray of food, and hoped the smile annoyed the Colonel. He had no intention of playing the gentleman lording it over servants: if there was one thing he had learned in this life, it was the equal worth of all.

If the show of republican egalitarianism annoyed the Colonel, Montoya didn’t let it show. The maid as she left the food and slipped out of the room. Montoya, playing butler as well as host, stood beside his chair and gestured to the place beside him. There were only two places set at the table.

“Is it only us?” inquired Helm.

“I cancelled other plans.” Which meant, probably, that he had offended some Don and his socially ambitious wife, so that they had turned down for once the offer of a free meal and some fresh gossip. Helm was glad he had been spared their company. My God, he thought, when did I become such a curmudgeon? It was too hot and dry in this land, to feel friendly towards the tedious. He sat, and without invitation poured some wine for Montoya and then himself. He lifted his glass in a toast. “To the Queen,” he said lightly.

Montoya frowned dangerously.

“I meant,” said Helm pointedly, “Her Gracious Majesty, the Queen of Spain.”

The edge of Montoya’s mouth moved in what might have been a tic – or the recurrence of an appreciative smile. “Doctor Helm, are you baiting me?”

“Occasionally,” said Helm blandly.

“Do you see me as your enemy?”

“Let me consider this.” He took a long, refreshing drink of the wine, letting it seep into the dry places in his bones. “You attempt to shoot a young woman I know. You make me a prisoner in your home, on spurious legal grounds. You accuse me of complicity in attempted murder and possibly banditry or sedition, you ransack my home without giving me any warning - and that’s just today. Yes, I think I might call you my enemy.”

Montoya shook his head. “Helm. You are a difficult man to charm.”

“Impossible to charm,” Helm corrected.

“I would like us to be friends.”

“I would like to see the Second Coming. I doubt it will happen.”

“You are a religious man?”

“Not at all. God and I leave each other alone – a friendly mutual agreement.”

Montoya began to eat. He ate neatly, chewing his food thoroughly. His expression was mild, even thoughtful. After a few minutes, Helm relaxed enough to eat himself. Montoya put him on edge. He wondered why. He had dealt with enough snobs in his time, socially conscious prigs who measured a man’s worth by his status. It was typical of officers in the British army and of men in service of the British government as much as those of Spain. He ought to be used to it. He opposed it on principle, but usually did not take it personally.

Montoya bothered him more than other such men had done. Why? His use or misuse of justice was no more blatant. The attack on the Queen of Swords had not disturbed him unduly – it had been invited, which she knew as well as they did.

The truth was, he realized, that he found Montoya entertaining, and not entirely unpleasant. He must be hard up for company, if he found a power-hungry soldier in a remote backwater town amusing.

Still, the man was intelligent, give him that. He was not a hypocrite, either. Helm deplored his politics and his methods, but they were no worse than most men in Montoya’s position.

The truth was, he wanted to think of Montoya with contempt, and he couldn’t. Judge a man not by his friends, but by his enemies…. Sometimes the line blurred. It was an unnerving thought. He disliked the man. It seemed wrong to enjoy his company.

“You will be pleased to know,” said Montoya, dabbing his lips with his napkin before taking another sip of wine, “that your . . . friend . . . the Queen has once again escaped Grisham’s pursuit.”

“Pleased,” agreed Helm, “but not surprised.”

“You are not impressed by our gallant Captain?”

“Frankly, Colonel, I think he’s an idiot. I wonder why you put up with him.”

“It can be difficult to find able officers here. He is honest – well, more or less – competent ….”

“More or less,” finished Helm for him.

“And less lazy than the alternatives available to me.”

“…More or less,” echoed Helm, on cue. Montoya grinned. Helm found himself grinning back, to his own annoyance. Something dry and dead was falling away from his soul, and it was too late to reach for its protection. He tried to quell the excitement within him. This man was an enemy, tyrannical agent of a despotic king. He mustn’t forget that.

“What made you decide to become a doctor?”

The Colonel’s tone was of polite curiosity; it was the type of dinnertime conversation he would make with one of the Dons. There was nothing in it to make Helm flush angrily, but he did.

“I prefer not to discuss my private business.”

“So secretive! Perhaps you are only pretending to be a doctor.”

“As long as my patients don’t agree.”

“It makes you uneasy that I know things about you,” said Montoya, musing. “I know more about you than perhaps you think I do. If you are trying to hide your anger, you are doing a bad job of it. I have been making inquiries about you.”

“With who, for God’s sake? The woman who does my laundry? Do you know how much starch goes into my collars?”

“With friends in the diplomatic corps, who have ties to England.”

“I trust they came up with nothing,” said Helm. His fingers were tight on the wine glass, and he forced them to loosen. He wanted to swallow the whole full bottle then and there, and for that reason, did not take so much as a sip from his glass.

“Which in itself would be suspicious. You are intriguing…. In more ways than one.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“I believe you when you say you are not the lover of the Queen of Swords. I knew already that you do not leave your house at night, and she does not come to visit you.”

Helm ignored the surge of anger he felt to know he had been spied upon. He tried not to let it show. “It is possible for lovers to meet during the day.”

“Yes. You may, but I doubt it. Do you lust after her?”

He was not about to explain his unusual relationship with the Queen to Montoya. There had been moments of lust, certainly, at least on his part; probably also on hers. Towards her also he felt anger, and an overwhelming ache in the heart because she was just what he had been at eighteen, at twenty, at twenty-two, idealistic and determined to right the wrongs of the world armed with nothing but an all-consuming passion for justice. Such passion should have destroyed every evil it faced by the sheer purity of its stupidity. “Sometimes. Do you?”

“I wish I knew whether you were being honest. . . . or just baiting me again. No, I do not lust after her – except in the abstract. A lust for her blood, perhaps. Unlike you, I do not know her.”

Helm ignored the accusation and the confession. There was no reason to believe anything Montoya said to him. The man was devious – and as accomplished a liar as Helm had ever been. He would have made a good spy.

The maids came in a cleared the table, returning with sugared cakes and a bottle of sweet sherry. Helm hated sugared cakes. He didn’t like sweet sherry either, but he could bear it, under the circumstances. At least it wasn’t dry, like the infernal heat.

“Are you a lonely man?” asked Montoya. “If only I could read your mind…. Why is there no woman in your life?”

“You’ve had me watched.”

“Yes. You intrigue me, as I said. At first I thought you were sleeping with the Queen, but I quickly changed my mind. You have abstemious habits and a high tolerance for liquor. You keep to yourself. You work hard at your profession, giving your patients care and attention such as I have seldom seen. You devote yourself particularly to the poor and the helpless. Do you do this for the love of God? Are you a saint? A monk vowed to chastity?”

“Hardly,” said Helm dryly.

“I thought not. And yet, you are as celibate as if you were. Why is that? You never visit the local whores. I know, because I have asked them. They assure me that you would be a most welcome customer.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” said Helm.

Montoya pursued the last crumbs of his tea cake. “Come, let’s take the sherry into the drawing room,” he said, rising. “I have sent the servants to bed, in the other part of the house. I liked my privacy in the evening.” He left the room, carrying the decanter by its neck. Helm followed, with an odd sensation of dizziness. Too much wine, too little food? Or the disorientation of the situation, of being Montoya’s prisoner, forced into the role of guest, listening to pointed chatter about his own love life – and if ever a subject were a joke, that was the emptiest joke of all. Oddly, it did not annoy him the way the probing into his past had done. He wondered if the same questions from another man would have angered him more, and realized they would have done. Despite himself, he was enjoying the thrust and parry of Montoya’s verbal attacks… assuming they were attacks and not merely bloody-minded prurience.

Yet even that thought didn’t bother him. He thoughtfully watched the Colonel’s profile as he crossed the room and sat comfortably on the seat of his padded chaise, the sherry on an upright table beside him. Was it possible that he misjudged the man? Prejudiced by the Queen’s hatred of him and his own egalitarian views….

No. He dismissed the thought, firmly.

Helm chose the straightest, hardest wooden chair in the room. The curtains of the sitting room were almost fully drawn, so that the faintest trace of the magenta sunset was visible. This arid land made for beautiful sunsets, stunning and remote.

Montoya turned his glass in his hands. “So you do not frequent whores, and still you do not turn to the local women who make eyes at you. I’ve seen them at it… Making sure you know when their husbands are not home, thinking up new and interesting ailments which make it necessary for you to visit them.”

“Some are genuinely sick,” said Helm. He wondered why he was saying this. Their flirtatious triviality annoyed him, as did their hypochondria, but it raised his compassion, too. It was a sign of their unhappiness, their loneliness. Who was he to judge them?

“I’m sure they are. No doubt you prefer to avoid such trouble as duels with their husbands, or an assassin in the night.”

“Perhaps I have respect for the institution of marriage.”

“As you say. So then, the unmarried women – the young ones, the beautiful virgins, they stare at you with such admiration. It would be lust if they knew what they were about, I am sure. You leave them alone as well.”

“A poor sort of doctor I would be, to do anything else. Besides, a vengeful father or brother is no better than a betrayed husband.”

“I am not talking only of illicit love. You might woo and marry any of the young ladies here – Tessa Alvarado, for example: she is rich, lonely, bored, and I have seen her seek you out. You don’t even seem to consider such a match. You avoid any kind of intimacy. Why is that, I wonder?”

“Perhaps I prefer to be a bachelor.”

“A lonely life, without compensations, and surely not a healthy one. I thought of many theories. You might prefer men in your bed – but no, there have been none of those, either. Do I shock you this frank talk?”

“You have shocked me many times,” said Helm politely. “By your treatment of the townspeople and those under your power. By your tendency to violence. You may be as outspoken as you like: it is difficult to shock me with words.”

“Is it?”

“Frankly, Colonel, I don’t think you could.”

Montoya’s eyes sparkled with the lure of challenge, and he resumed his train of through. “Why else might you prefer to be alone? You might be diseased – but you are a doctor, knowing well how to avoid contracting the pox, and how to cure yourself if necessary. You might be sexless, without interest in liaisons. You might be impotent, interested but unable to act. You might be faithful to a lost love. You might be carrying the inheritance of a hideous deformation and fear any possibility of progeny. You smile. Are you amused by my theories, Doctor?”

“I was admiring your vocabulary.”

“Are any of my theories near the mark at all?”

“I confess! I have a wife and ten children back in England. I abandoned them all when the second set of twins was born.”

Montoya put his glass down, gently. “I don’t think so.”

“No? And here I was starting to feel quite sentimental about little Hector and Henrietta.”

Montoya looked seriously at him. “Are you lonely?”

“I am too busy to be lonely.”

“Liar. Being busy does not help, it merely distracts.”

Helm shrugged. “I think you overestimate my charms.”

“Not in the least. You want me to believe you can’t attract people? I see you cross the town square, and every eye follows you. The virgins sigh and the matrons flutter their lashes. The men stare and the youths try to impress you…. Do I make you blush?”

“Hardly. Colonel, why does this interest you? I assure you, my life is simply boring.”

“Everything about you interests me.”

Feeling oddly disoriented, Helm said slowly, “I see.” He put down his glass.

The silence was tense. He had never thought of himself as naïve; quite the opposite. Why had it taken him this long to guess what Montoya was getting at, and what he wanted? He already knew him as a ruthless and willful autocrat. The rest followed naturally: such men will use or misuse power in any way they can, including personal power, and sexual power. Why had he not seen it coming?

“I wonder if you do,” asked Montoya. His velvet-dark eyes betrayed him.

“You said you wanted to befriend me.” Helm stood. He thought he could handle his better on his feet. He wondered if he could handle it at all. He was not taken off balance because the approach surprised him. He would expect anything from Montoya, especially the unexpected. No, it was his own response which surprised him. It was as if his jaded and dessicated body had awakened and sprung to life, the dulled appetite blossoming like the desert after a rainstorm.

This was just another weakness, among many. He had dealt with the others. He could deal with this. It was possible, in fact, that Montoya had just given him all the weapons he needed.

“True. There is no other man in town who understands my jokes.”

“I never laugh at your jokes.”

“Understanding them is the first step. I plan to work on the rest.”

Helm found himself genuinely amused. There was something honest here, after all. “So,” he said conversationally, making his opening gambit as casual and incendiary as he could, “Are you suggesting, then, that if I let you take me to bed, I can earn my freedom?”

Montoya’s gaze sharpened. “Sir. You insult me. To do such a thing would be to treat you as a whore and make myself a….”

“Blackguard? I thought you were. Did I misunderstand?”

Montoya nodded, shortly. “Men fight to the death for insults less than that.” He drained his glass and put it down again.

“But I don’t fight at all. Not when there are alternatives.”

“How maddening you are.” Montoya’s spurt of anger seemed to have given way, again, to amusement.

Helm pulled the curtains fully closed. The room was in shadows, except for the two burning lamps. “Tell me, then, in simple words. What exactly were you proposing?”

“I was suggesting that we have more in common than might appear. That from the fiasco of our encounters we might create some sort of… friendship… that might bring comfort to us both.”

“Oh. That kind of friendship. It’s all clear to me now.” Helm tugged at the bow of his cravat, pulled it from his neck, and tossed it aside without watching it fall. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, then the second button. “Forgive me if I missed the distinction.”

 

Montoya paled, but did not stop him from undressing. “There is no one in this godforsaken place to talk to, and you, you barely give me the time of day. You are elusive and beautiful and….” He stopped suddenly, staring at Helm’s face, abruptly wordless for once. Was it because he realized he was speaking unguardedly? Or was that one of the carefully-orchestrated steps to seduction?

Helm finished the thought for him. “And two lonely bachelors might give each other… comfort.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No. Just clarifying our positions.” Helm used his left hand to unbutton his vest. He was good with his left hand. Ambidexterity was a great asset, in sex as well as in surgery. He let the burgundy satin vest hang open, loose over the shirt. He wandered the room a little, feeling Montoya’s eyes following him.

“Our positions? I am….”

“Sitting and watching. Good.” With his back to the Colonel, Helm removed his jacket, held it for a moment in his right hand, then dropped it to the ground. He stood in shirtsleeves and open vest, the cuffs of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. It was the only way he was ever comfortable, in this damned heat.

The heat seemed to be getting to Montoya, who was sweating.

Helm turned slowly. He stepped towards him and leaned forward to say softly, “Intimacy with the enemy. Don’t they execute men for that?” He straightened and wandered back towards the windows.

“I am not your enemy.”

“You are her enemy. You think me her ally.”

“The Queen.” Montoya hesitated, then said clearly, “She is a criminal. I was jealous. I know you care about her. I thought you and she… I wanted to kill her.”

Helm shrugged. “Your jealousy is all for nothing: I don’t want her. She is amazing, but she is a child.”

“Are you so old?”

“In spirit, older than you can imagine. Certainly old enough to know better.”

Using both hands, Helm reached for the third button of his shirt. The collar hung open, exposing the central line of his chest. He saw Montoya’s eyes lower to his belt, then up again. He leaned his buttocks against the bookshelf behind him, his hands loose against the books. “You advocate physical intimacy for the sake of health, I believe?”

“All the best doctors are in favour of it nowadays.”

“So you are consulting me on a medical matter.”

“Yes. Doctor, I have a terrible pain in the groin.”

“An ache?”

“A terrible ache. A growing ache.”

“Ah. You have tried rubbing it?”

“It gets worse when you are nearby. Why is that?”

“Because I’m a tease,” said Helm. He moved away from the bookcase, standing straight, letting his fingers brush the back of a book as he moved.

“Why are you . . . ?”

“Why am I playing your game? Perhaps it’s the only game in town, Colonel. Or maybe it isn’t your game at all. Maybe you didn’t even set up the board.”

“Are you challenging me?”

“Challenging? Is that what you call it? I am wondering about you, Colonel. I am wondering what you will taste like, when I run my tongue along the side of your neck and bite your ear.” He took a step closer to Montoya, and stopped, bending towards him and speaking slowly, in a low voice that Montoya had to strain to hear. “I am wondering what sound you will make, when I suck your nipples and caress your balls. I am wondering what you will feel like when I knead your buttocks with my hands, and stroke your cock with my fingers.”

Montoya stared for a moment, then laughed aloud, in genuine pleasure. “Tell me I’m not dreaming!”

“You are dreaming,” said Helm. He walked slowly backward, knowing each movement made his loose shirt sway against his body, revealing glimpses of flesh, of nipple, revealed and then hidden at each step. “A long, deep, hard wet dream.” He stopped in the middle of the room. With deliberately graceful movements he unbuckled the belt at his waist, letting its ends fall from the belt-loops at his side. “A dream from which you will never want to wake.”

“Madre de Dios!” said Montoya, with a sort of stricken reverence. “Helm, I thought you were repressed. Now I think you are….”

“Beautiful?” teased Helm. He raised his chin, and rested his fingertips on his waistband, moving them back and forth against the cloth. He saw Montoya swallow.

“No. Mad,” said Montoya, his eyes alight. He raised them to Helm’s face. “You can desire me, then?” The voice was cold, but the eyes were not.

Another crack threatened the dryness of Helm’s soul. He felt a lump in his throat that he could not account for medically. He thought – he wanted to think of Montoya as despicable, but the thought would not come. Cruel, vain, power-hungry he might be, but he was needy as any other human being. Proud, yes; arrogant, yes; and Helm found himself wanting to take that proud arrogance into his arms.

Focus away from that neediness. This was the true enemy, this compassion for the corrupt and the tyrannical. Castlereagh on his high horse, trampling the peasants. Show no mercy to the despots. False vulnerability was another deception, another trap. Lust was a weapon here, not a weakness. He must keep it so.

Showing no mercy to Montoya or himself, Helm shrugged, knowing how the movement exposed skin and shadow, hair and hard muscle. “I can take your body to the summit. Do you have the nerve to go there with me?”

Montoya stood. His movement was deliberate and smooth, but lacked his usual grace, and Helm felt a thrill of victory. The tables had turned again. “Yes,” said Montoya, hoarsely.

Helm’s deft fingertips loosed the buttons at his waistband. The cloth fell back, so that he could feel the dry, hot air of the room on navel and belly. “Dear me,” he said. “I fear my trousers may fall. I never wear underclothes in his heat.”

“Come with me to the bedroom,” said the Colonel. He seemed to be clenching his teeth.

“After you,” said Helm. “If we can get there without falling apart, as it were.” He didn’t move as Montoya came towards him. Before Montoya could touch him, he took the Colonel’s head in his hands and brushed his lips against Montoya’s mouth, tasting the sherry dry and sweet on his lips, and the first sense of the taste that was his body and no one else’s.

“Quickly,” he said, and loosed his hands.

Carrying the lamp, Montoya led the way through the great hallway and up the stairs. There was no one about. The servants were in the basement and the other section of the house; there were no doubt guardsmen at the gates outside. If he tried to murder the Colonel here and now, would they come running? Or was the Colonel so confident he could handle a civilian like Helm that he scorned the possibility of attack, and accepted no protection? There was a time in his life when Helm would have taken his chances, using violence for his escape. Not now; he had other ways of handling things.

Montoya pushed open the wide double-doors of his bedchamber, and stood aside for Helm to pass. Helm went in, deliberately brushing against the Colonel as he did so, feeling with satisfaction the hardness of his erection hidden under the elegant uniform. This was a game Helm played to win, and he had a fistful of Kings.

The room was luxurious, as befitted a provincial Governor and Military Commander. Baroque and grand, elegantly Spanish, the dark carved bed dominated the space, with its four massive posts like spires.

Montoya closed the door with a heavy thud, and put the lamp on its shelf. “Undress,” he said. It was not quite a command, but in no way a plea.

Helm went to the bed and sat on it, leaning back on his elbows. “My dear Colonel. I will if you will.”

Montoya was smiling slightly. He began to loosen his jacket as Helm rolled over on the bed, stretched out on it on his stomach, his hands in fists against the pillows at the head. The pillow smelled faintly of lavender. Slowly and suggestively he pressed his groin into the mattress, knowing how it clenched his buttocks.

“Helm,” said the Colonel, his voice holding a note of warning that meant, “Wait for me.”

“Call me Robert,” said Helm.

Helm raised himself on his hands and knees, then stepped to the floor at the side of the bed. As he had predicted, his unbuttoned trousers were falling loose on his hips, slipping downward. Ignoring the trousers, he shrugged off his shirt, then bent down to pull off his boot. The move was not as smooth as it might have been. He almost lost his balance, but Montoya was there beside him, holding his elbow. He looked hard at the Colonel and said, “Pull off my other boot.”

Unhesitating, Montoya dropped to one knee, and pulled off his remaining boot, and both his socks. Well, well, well, thought Helm, who’d have guessed? Extra point to the Colonel, not for the submission, but for surprising him. He had thought Montoya would refuse. He had thought he would play the magisterial lord in the bedroom.

Montoya touched his feet, lightly. Then he rose, and put his hands on Helm’s hips, and pushed the loose fabric so that his trousers fell to his ankles and he stepped out of them, naked. Montoya simply stood, staring, dressed in full impeccable uniform. “Robert,” he said slowly, as if it were an unfamiliar word in a strange language.

Helm said, “Luis,” though Montoya had not asked him to use the name. It felt strange on his lips, like a magical spell. He ran a finger down the line of Montoya’s beard, surprisingly soft to the touch, like a woman’s hair.

He moved closer, and began unbuttoning the lower buttons of Montoya’s jacket. “Do you have a valet?”

“Do I – yes, of course I have a valet.”

“Tonight, I am your valet.” He tilted his head down and kissed the hollow at the base of Montoya’s throat, a dry kiss, a kiss of air and breath. “Does he undress you like this?” He blew on the spot he had kissed, all the while unfastening more polished military buttons. “I suspect you don’t even know how to dress yourself.”

“Easier said than done.”

He pulled Montoya’s shirt out from his trousers, and ran his hands underneath it, over his chest. Warm, dry hair; hard nipples. He pinched them. Montoya gasped. It was not a gasp of pain. Helm ran his hands over his back, moving closer, their cocks touching with the thick fabric of Montoya’s uniform trousers suddenly insubstantial between them.

Helm stepped back. “Lie on the bed,” he said. “Spread your legs. I need to pull off your boots.”

Montoya obeyed without hesitation. Helm looked at him as he pulled off the first boot, thinking suddenly how young Montoya appeared. He was not a youth, but – how old was he? Less than he liked to seem, Helm guessed. Montoya’s hand lay loosely on the bed and he lifted it to his lips, licking each fingertip in turn, and then sucking gently. This time, Montoya gasped aloud, and moved. “No!”, said Helm sharply, putting a hand on one thigh. “Keep your legs apart.”

“Get my trousers off me,” said Montoya, “or God help, me, I’ll come in them.”

Helm smiled and stepped back. “Ah,” he said. “Clearly a serious medical problem. I appear to be making it worse, not better. Perhaps I should leave.”

Montoya groaned.

“Clearly, the patient is experiencing an increase in the level of pain.”

“Robert…”

“Yes?”

“Please.”

It was said with such affectionate need, that Helm suddenly realized another truth: this was not the Governor speaking, nor the Colonel, but the man underneath all the uniforms. The man who somewhere and somehow had a heart and soul, and a body too, buried and starved underneath the mannerisms and protocol and layers of braid.

Helm knelt on the bed, his hands propping him beside Montoya’s shoulders, his knees to each side of Montoya’s hips. He bent his head and kissed him on the lips, first lightly, as before, then harder, warmly. Their lips opened. Tonguetips touched, then explored. The kiss deepened.

It was Helm who pulled away. He removed Montoya’s shirt and trousers and underwear, his socks and the ribbon in his hair. He touched his body with his hands, letting their cocks tease each other as he moved over him. There was a luxury to this, skin touching skin, and Montoya’s hands were exploring him now, running along his chest and back, his head, his hips, his face, like a blind man seeking a picture.

He kissed Montoya’s face, lips lingering over his eyes and brows. “Such silky hair,” he murmured. “I never knew.”

“Robert,” said Montoya softly. His face registered each touch of Helm’s hand, each escalation of sensation. His weight on his knees, Helm kept their groins in contact and brushed his nipples over Montoya’s chest as he kissed and sucked and once again kissed his neck and shoulder and the silken damp hair under his arm. Montoya’s breath was heavy now, his hands moving hard and randomly, his body and mind focused on this escalating pleasure they shared. It was as if rank had disappeared, and law, and status. It was illusion, but it was truth, too. As men, they were equals. In the world, Montoya held the power. In this bed, it was a delicate balance they were treading.

Montoya shivered and arched in his arms, and Helm judged it to be time. He whispered into Montoya’s ear, “Will you fuck me? Is that what you want?”

“If you … Yes.”

 

Helm grinned devilishly, raising his head. “I’ve been thinking about it, Luis. Haven’t you?“ He shut his eyes. “Swelling, pushing.” He rolled over, lightly touching and holding his own balls. “Thrusting. Come in, Luis. Come in and fill me.”

Montoya’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. “You are a reckless man, Robert,” he said. He left the bed, and Helm watched him, noticing the grace of the slim body without the pretentious clothes. Montoya came back with a vial. “Oil of roses,” he said, pouring some over his hand, soothing it over his engorged cock. Then he moved his hand to Helm’s body, and Helm caught the aroma of roses, felt the cool wetness as Montoya’s finger touched him, caressing and spreading the slippery liquid.

He had never expected the consideration. Surprise and affection mingled for a moment: a weakening, a softening of his defenses, a twist of the heart.

He could not afford such weakness, not with this man, and not in this situation. He growled his lust and reached for Montoya, pushing aside his hand. “Do it,” he said.

Montoya hesitated, then moved over him, murmuring something that Helm could not catch. He thrust into him, gently at first, but Helm wouldn’t have it: he thrust back and grabbed Montoya’s shoulders so hard he knew he would leave bruises. He bucked his hips, forcing Montoya deeper, feeling it all again as he had remembered, the coyness of the pain which was followed by that rush of pleasure to deep that it overwhelmed him, enveloped him, drove him into mindlessness. He was crying out wordlessly, screaming and then mewing, lost in a haze of deep animalistic orgasm, shuddering in spasms and then lost even to movement, on a plateau of peace so high that it might have left his body behind. He could feel Montoya’s hand on his cock and it was part of the sensation consuming him, precluding thought.

Then came ejaculation, though whether it had been minutes or hours since Montoya had entered his body he could not have said. The release brought him slowly back to the present, back to the recognition of the Governor’s bed in the Governor’s palace, and the man with him, his lips drawn back over clenched teeth as he too climaxed. In his backside and on his belly, Helm could feel the same satin wash of wet warmth, and he moaned and laughed with the joy of it.

He felt luxuriously vindicated, though he could not have explained why.

Montoya lay limply beside him, touching him with gentle caresses, murmuring endearments in whispered Spanish. The world was coming back. Thought, and sensations other than the sexual. Hot, dry air, and a mundane pain in his arse where he had been stretched so deliciously far. He drifted in and out of sleep. He felt Montoya kiss his face. The brush of the beard pulled him out of his somnolence.

He said, “May I leave, now?”

Montoya’s breath caught. The kisses ceased. Montoya sat back against the pillows and said, “I made no deal.” His eyes had narrowed suddenly, as if Helm had hurt him.

“I know. I ask as… friend to friend.”

“As me as lover to lover, and see what I say.”

“All right.” He could concede that much. He had won the game, after all. “As lover to lover. Let me go.”

“All right.”

“That’s it? I can dress and walk away? I can go home?”

“Go wherever you like. You are free.”

“Thank you.” He got up, and started looking for his clothes. Damn! He’d been throwing them all over the place.

“I was hoping,” said Montoya, sitting up, speaking in a brusque monotone that revealed rather than hid his hurt feelings, “that you might want to stay the night.”

Helm flashed a smile at him. “Perhaps… another night.”

“There will be another night, then?”

“Do you wish it?”

“Do you?”

Helm gave a mock bow. “As my lord the Governor orders.”

“You bastard!” Montoya laughed again. “How the hell do you do it? You make me angry and make me laugh at the same time.”

Helm had found his trousers at the foot of the bed and half under it. He was pulling them on, one leg at a time. “A good fuck might have something to do with it.”

“Robert—“

“Mmm?”

“What I did was… It was done out of love, you know.”

A pause. “I could tell,” said Helm gently. He was lying, because he knew Montoya was lying. It was not an unkind lie. Having his men spy on him, following him, arresting him, manipulating him – and giving him the blessed gift of a few moments without thought. Did Montoya realize the value of it? Probably he did, and the pleasure, too. The immeasurable pleasure. He walked back to the bed, and gave him the favour of a kiss, his lips lingering, his tongue caressing Montoya’s lip. “I know. I knew.”

“You’ll come back?”

He smiled, and shrugged, rising and moving away. “Maybe. Are you always that good?”

“I do my best.”

Helm rose, and put on the Governor’s shirt instead of his own. Impeccably tailored, it fit perfectly. He rolled up the sleeves instead of using the no doubt valuable cufflinks. “Practice, they say, makes perfect. Assuming that could be bettered.” He looked at him wryly. “You judged wrong, you know. I am a whore.”

“I’ve never met a man more honourable.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A killer-doctor who consorts with outlaws? Honourable? Don’t deceive yourself.” He turned to leave.

“Wait!”

“Yes?”

Montoya left the bed. “I have something for you.” He went to his chest of drawers, and started looking for something inside. Helm watched, curious. At this point, money or an object of monetary value would be an insult. A token of love would be embarrassing. A practical gift would be beside the point. So….

With a grunt of success, Montoya found what he was looking for. He held the object out to drop from his fist into Helm’s hand. Helm took it. It was a key.

“The key to my hacienda,” he said. “My servants and my soldiers will all be under orders to serve you at any time, to let you use my home as your own. The doors are not locked during the day. At night, you will want to use the key.”

“Suppose I bring back the Queen of Swords to murder you in your bed?”

Montoya smiled again, and squeezed his hand. “I will take that risk. I am a gambler at heart.”

Helm closed his hand on the key, then dropped it in his pocket. “The end of round one,” he said. “Which of us won?”

Montoya shook his head again. “Robert… Doctor Helm… we do not need to be playing against each other.”

“Who else could give either of us such a good game?”

Montoya looked warmly into his eyes, and Helm once more felt a strand of dryness fall away, tumbleweed in the wind. He turned to go, but stopped as Montoya put his arms around him, kissing the back of his neck, the moist heat of his breath making the fine hairs stand up on Helm’s nape. Montoya whispered fiercely, “You make me want to arrest you again.”

“Arrest me often enough, and you’ll be forced to hang me. Who would you have to play with then?”

“Come back to me.”

“Maybe.”

“Come back tomorrow night.”

“Maybe next week.”

He felt the warmth of Montoya’s smile against the back of his head. “Till tomorrow then, think of me.”

He could still feel that embrace even after he had taken his horse back to his own dusty street and his own dry house, where the soldiers had not made such a mess as he had feared, after all. In the cool night air, the dry heat did not seem unpleasant.

Round one: the encounter had been, in retrospect, a tie.

The rest remained to be seen.

 

 


End file.
